


Twenty-Two Silver Buttons

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Banter, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Injuries, Party, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24316537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Jaskier is hired to play at a wedding. He bumps into Geralt and they have a bit too much to drink.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 263
Collections: Fluffy as a Cloud Flash Exchange





	Twenty-Two Silver Buttons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



When he wakes, in a moderately comfortable bed with his nose in someone's hair, he's honestly surprised it's not with a hangover roughly the size and shape of Skellige. He knows he'd deserve it, considering the last thing he remembers is the fifth cup of mead that was so violently alcoholic that the fire-eater could've probably used it in a pinch, and so sweet they must have thieved from all the bees in a ten mile radius. Not that it's really thieving if you own said bees, and the land they buzz over, but he thinks the point still stands nonetheless. 

The salient point, though, is that he doesn't have a hangover. Just a sort of interesting blank spot that settles in between said violently alcoholic mead and this moment, playing big spoon while trying not to breathe in a lungful of someone else's hair. Someone's hair, as it happens, so he's either pressed up against Geralt in a highly inappropriate manner or he's developed a drunken desire to bed local septuagenarians. Either thing is possible, he supposes, but one eventuality is much more likely than the other. 

He has one hand underneath his own head, where the offending appendage has apparently decided to sleep longer than he has, and one arm wrapped around someone's waist. One hand tucked up under someone's shirt, actually, resting on someone's remarkably toned abs. So fine, he probably is in bed with someone who's three times his age, but you probably also wouldn't know it to look at him. Witchers are funny like that.

"Geralt?" he says. "Can I just make sure that's you and not the town chronicler? I'm sure he was giving me the eye last night and while I appreciate the attention..."

Geralt grumbles under his breath; Jaskier suspects it's nothing very complimentary so he doesn't ask him to repeat himself, but it does at least confirm he hasn't gone to bed with the most boring man in three counties. That's a relief because frankly, even Jaskier couldn't make anything exciting out of nine generations of their lord's family history, not when its highlights include _3rd lord of Trigellan: built a bridge_ and _5th lord of Trigellan: built a slightly better bridge_. There wasn't even a troll underneath it to liven things up a bit. 

So, he lies there, apparently fully clothed except for his doublet and boots so who knows where those have ended up, with his fingers splayed over Geralt's warm stomach. He lies there while he waits for the penny to drop and Geralt to kick him out of bed. Possibly literally. It wouldn't be the first time. 

He waits. And he waits. And he _waits_. And, while he waits, he closes his eyes. He settles down and he allows himself to enjoy the moment, brief as he's sure it will be. When he breathes, his chest rises against Geralt's back. It feels quite nice, if he's honest about it; about as nice as he's imagined it might be. 

He waits. And, while he waits, he remembers. 

\---

It was a hell of a night. 

Jaskier et al had been hired to play at some overly wealthy lord's daughter's wedding party and he'd turned up at the manor house outside the quaint little town perched up on the coast to find Geralt was already there. It was something about a werewolf or a harpy or something like that - Jaskier was hazy on the details because really, when he wasn't there to immortalise the thing in song, the stories all seemed to blend together quite a bit. Sometimes he suspects that's a thing his brain does on purpose; he maybe isn't quite jealous of the things Geralt does without him - they're their own men and he does things without Geralt sometimes, too - but...well, the fact was he couldn't think of a way to finish that sentence that didn't sound a lot like sour grapes. 

The fact remained, though: they were both there. Geralt was sitting at one of the long tables laid out for guests - not the top one but fairly close to it, within spitting distance of the uppity lord himself - and every now and then he glanced at Jaskier over his wine and grimaced. Jaskier could see why, because he was wearing an incredibly fancy outfit, all charcoal greys and sapphire blues and shiny silvers, and it had probably cost more than he made on any twenty of his little monster hunts strung together. His hair was braided all pretty-like and nothing went with his eyes but Jaskier hadn't really seen much in the world that would. He got it, though: Geralt was more than usually grumpy because he was more than usually dressed up. The way he kept tugging at his collar like it was shackles in a cell and not probably very nice silk just confirmed that. 

"Well, don't you scrub up nicely," Jaskier said, once the entertainment was taking a well-earned break and he had a chance to mingle. He plucked at the shiny silver buttons on the front of Geralt's fancy doublet and gave him a significant look. "Was this your idea?"

"His fucking lordship said he wouldn't pay me unless I came to his party," Geralt replied. "So here I am, dressed up like his fucking toy." 

"And a very handsome toy you are, too," Jaskier said. "Is he going to want to take it off you later, too?"

Geralt glared. Jaskier smiled sweetly. Then he joined him leaning there against the ballroom wall, arms crossed, surveying the scene. The chamber group had struck up for dancing and he supposed they weren't bad if he had to offer an opinion, but the fiddle needed new strings and he'd heard more enthusiasm from prisoners in dungeons. Of course, he'd usually been leading the prison chorus himself as he awaited inevitable rescue, and that made all the difference. 

"You're not dancing?" Jaskier asked, not that he'd really expected it. 

Geralt rested his head back against the wall and turned it towards him. "Was that an offer?" he replied, wryly, with his eyebrows arched and his arms still crossed. 

"It would be, but I'd really like to get paid tonight," Jaskier said. "I'm sorry to break it to you, Geralt, but I actually didn't come all the way here just for the witty repartee." 

Geralt made a face and they both looked out at the dancers. Two drinks followed, a cup of wine for each of them as they loitered there together, Jaskier trying very hard not to picture the two of them dancing. Two more drinks followed. Jaskier and his assorted musicians played their second set, much to the other guests' delight if maybe not Geralt's, and then another drink followed. Then the mead came out and while people laughed and danced and sang, the two of them sat themselves down at one of the tables and had _another_ drink. It was nice, actually, the two of them together again, chatting, not that Geralt did much of that. Maybe Jaskier hadn't exactly been ignorant of the fact he'd missed the grumpy sod's company while they'd been apart, but the fact Geralt didn't object to him talking his ear off said maybe, just maybe, he'd missed him, too. 

And yes, so there came a point where he'd really had too much, and yes, so he powered past that point with all the subtlety of a rampaging bullock, but what happened next wasn't actually his fault. When he tripped, it really could've happened to anyone. When he stumbled into the lord's newly-married daughter and steadied himself with his hands at her waist, it wasn't like he did it on purpose, and it wasn't like she seemed to mind. He smiled, and he bowed, and he apologised politely, and that was when her huge fucking ham-handed lug of a husband punched him in the face. 

He remembers going down on the floor like a sack full of turnips. He remembers trying to pick himself back up but finding the surly bastard's big boot in the middle of his chest rather hindered his progress. And, oh dear, oh dear oh dear, he remembers the fight that broke out afterwards. Geralt was a foot shorter than their employer's new son-in-law but that didn't seem to stop him when he grabbed him by his doublet and threw him over the nearest table. Geralt was probably a foot narrower, too, and probably a good sack of turnips lighter, but that really didn't seem to matter when he put a knee to his unmentionables. Jaskier remembers wincing at that. He remembers standing up and dusting himself off and then three other men got involved and the bride started shrieking and in the middle of it, somehow, as some kind of immense brawl that the flirty-eyed chronicler might have said was centuries in the making broke out across the ballroom, the two of them grabbed Jaskier's lute and ducked out of it. When they liberated Roach from the stables and made off into the night, the guests were _still_ fighting inside. And, more to the point, they definitely didn't get paid. 

He remembers the next town, and the inn, and the grumpy-looking landlord, and making a face at Geralt as they stumbled up the stairs. He remembers saying, "You know, that really wasn't my fault," and the fact that Geralt's hair was hanging half out of his uncharacteristic plait and he'd got blood trickling down his exceedingly square and manly jaw into the collar of his exceedingly nice doublet. There was a tear in the shoulder of it and he was missing a button and he'd apparently torn his knuckles on the fighty fool's face, and he remembers frowning at him as he sat himself down on the side of the bed. 

"You could've just let him beat me up," he said. "You might've still got paid." 

Geralt grimaced. "I could've done a lot of things," he said, and his grimace turned into a wince as he started undoing his buttons with his injured hands - there wasn't much of a difference between the two expressions, truth be told, but Jaskier had known him long enough by then to see it. So he picked himself up again and he stumbled his way over there and he shooed Geralt's hands away, and he undid the row of tiny buttons himself, one by one. It took more concentration than he would've liked, leaning close and squinting at them, but at least he wasn't smudging the nice fabric with his bloody knuckles like Geralt had been. 

"I suppose if threatening him with bodily harm doesn't work, you could always just sell these," he said, and he poked one of the buttons. At least he tried to; the first attempt hit Geralt squarely in the chest instead, so he tried again. "I think they might actually be solid silver." He narrowed his eyes. He peered up at him, the difference in their respective heights exaggerated by the fact Geralt still had his boots on and Jaskier had apparently thrown his under the table, and he leaned in a bit closer to him, bracing himself against his chest. 

"You know, Geralt," he said, "if I didn't know better, I'd say the ninth lord of Trigellan was in love with you. I mean, I am, and I wouldn't buy you twenty-two silver buttons, let alone this fancy-arse thing to put them on...but I don't suppose I can afford to build a bridge, either."

He remembers the look Geralt gave him, like he wasn't sure whether to ask about how he'd developed such a sudden interest in bridge-building or about the bit that had come before it. Jaskier, on the other hand, blithely ignored everything he'd just said; he dabbed Geralt's knuckles with the ointment he'd set out on the table, wrapped bandages around them surprisingly neatly for someone so joyfully plastered, kissed him on the mouth like it was the best idea he'd had in months and then went to bed. 

That's where he is now, with his hand shoved under Geralt's shirt, wincing into the back of his hair. Because it turns out last night he let something slip that he hadn't exactly meant to. 

And, against all odds, he's still not been kicked out of bed.

\---

"Geralt..." he says. 

Geralt sighs. "Go back to sleep, Jaskier," he replies, which really doesn't sound like _fuck off out of this bed right now_. It doesn't sound like _fuck off out of this bed_ at all, let alone immediately.

"But, Geralt..."

Geralt groans. He takes a breath and he huffs it out and then he moves; he heaves himself over, making the moderately comfortable if equally rickety bed creak beneath the two of them, and suddenly they're so close together, nose to nose, that Jaskier can't even make his eyes focus on his bristly-jawed face. He shuffles back a bit, awkwardly - _very_ awkwardly, considering Geralt's hand's resting on his hip under the slightly threadbare blanket. He'd say they could've chosen a nicer place, but he suspects the nearest nicer place is back in the next town where his lordship with the short-tempered, ill-humoured son-in-law is probably still out with the torches and pitchforks. 

That part really wasn't his fault, he thinks. The kissing, though, that was definitely his fault. The other part, too.

"So, what is it?" Geralt asks, with truly remarkable calm for someone who's just woken up with his rather dashing best friend spooning him. 

"About last night," Jaskier replies.

"About the mead?" Geralt asks. 

"No, not about the mead." He squints. "Though that might have had something to do with it." 

"About the fight?" Geralt asks. 

"No, not about the fight." He wrinkles his nose. "Though you saving me from getting my face rearranged might have had something to do with it, too." 

"The buttons, then." 

"You're getting warmer."

Geralt clucks his tongue and he brings his hand up. He brushes his bandaged knuckles against Jaskier's cheek - he did a fucking great job with that for someone so inebriated, even if he says so himself - and when Jaskier says, "Err, Geralt..." Geralt pinches his lips together between his fingers and thumb to stop him saying anything else. Jaskier frowns. Geralt, for his part, looks highly amused, or at least as amused as he ever looks. 

"Think very carefully about the next words that come out of your mouth," Geralt says, and then he lets go again. 

So, he thinks about it. He could say a nice straightforward _sorry_ \- it's a dependable word, good for most occasions. He could say, _look, can we just pretend last night didn't happen?_ and that's a phrase that's saved him on an embarrassingly high number of occasions over the past several years. He could say, _I didn't mean it_ , but he meant it; however many years of traipsing around the countryside with the cantankerous arse have taught him that, and he's not much of a liar. Exaggeration, yes, he's a bard so he knows how to do that, and...okay, yes, there are a few little white lies mixed in there, but there's lies and then there's lies. 

Geralt's looking at him. It's sometime around dawn, judging from the gold light that actually goes with his eyes more than anything he was wearing last night, and he's...well, he's still there. He hasn't stalked off to go find breakfast, he hasn't made some silly excuse about feeding Roach like either of them believes he didn't pay for that to be taken care of; he's still there, with his hand on Jaskier's shoulder, his thumb rubbing his collarbone over the top of his shirt. There's a dozen things he could say but he doesn't say any of them because _Geralt's still there_ , mystifyingly, intriguingly, at least somewhat enticingly. So he kisses him. Sometimes actions speak louder than words, even if the words are his. 

The next thing he knows, Geralt pushes him down. He follows him over and stretches out on top of him, propped up on his forearms like that was his plan all along, and Jaskier has the distinct impression that actually, it was. When he says, "Good choice," Jaskier scowls and flicks him in the forehead, but they both know he doesn't really mean it. If Geralt stalked off now, chances are he'd chase him. Of course, Geralt's still wearing half his fancy clothes and he probably doesn't want to be seen like that in public, so chances are he's not going anywhere. 

When Geralt takes his fancy clothes off, that's when Jaskier knows for certain he's not leaving the room. When Geralt kisses him, naked, underneath the blanket, he's fairly sure what that means comes next. He gets his hands into his hair and he kisses him back and frankly, good as he looks in grey and blue and silver, he looks ten times better out of it. He might tell him that later, but for now it's probably best he gets his point across another way. He has years of ideas about that. 

They're probably not getting paid for last night's work. They're probably best not to come back this way for the foreseeable future. But as Geralt's teeth graze his neck, as Geralt's hands brush his thighs, he really can't help but think it's worth it.


End file.
